The Joy It Brings
by Polexia Aphrodite
Summary: A continuation of The Confession of Miss Price. A healer assigned to assist Snape in his efforts for the Order returns to Hogwarts when she learns Snape survived. Post-Deathly Hallows.
1. Broken Heart in Tow

The Joy it Brings: Chapter 1

By Polexia Aphrodite

Rating: T

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all affiliated characters, places and objects belong to J.K. Rowling, etc. Marianne Price belongs to me.

Notes: This is a continuation of _The Confession of Miss Price_. I've recently reworked this first chapter into third person, to reflect the end of the first part of the story and because it's easier on me as a writer. It feels too weirdly personal to write in first person. Maybe it's just me.

Last but not least, reviews are appreciated and really do help! Thanks in advance to everyone taking a moment to give me some feedback!

* * *

After everything, Marianne Price returned to St. Mungo's. She saw then, with alarming clarity, that her life would return to the settled, normal pattern it had had before Hogwarts, before him. She took a flat in Muggle London and commuted to the hidden wizarding hospital daily, spending th bulk of her shifts caring for victims of Death Eaters who still suffered from the residual effects of the dark curses that had been cast upon them. Two weeks passed, then three. She knew that, out of the seemingly mindless rituals of work, home, and sleep that those weeks gave birth to, a vision of the rest of her life was emerging. She saw herself continuing indefinitely in the Spell Damage Ward on the fourth floor of the ancient hospital, hoping for promotions and, eventually, an office of her own, spending quiet nights researching in her tiny apartment, perhaps one day gaining the gall and inspiration to ask the friendly Augustus Pye from the Creature-Induced Injuries Ward out for a drink sometime. When she felt up to it.

She thought of Severus from time to time. It was an inevitable compulsion, she told herself, hoping to ease her guilt. She often thought of the moment of Voldemort's defeat in Hogwarts' Great Hall. She had been working desperately with Madame Pomfrey to remove the injured students from the dangerous path of the Dark Lord and his followers as they cut a deadly path through the school. In those wild, frenzied moments, she had still managed to hear Potter's fateful revelation about him. She hadn't had the presence of mind then to fully understand everything that had been implied, what it truly meant.

It was two days later, reading Rita Skeeter's hysterical exposé entitled _Severus Snape: Vile Villain or Love-struck Lothario?_, that total realisation struck her, rendering her speechless, a strange desire to yell or sob or cough or choke rising in the back of her throat. The worst of it was that she knew how much sense the article made. Every wary glance, every tense, desperate embrace, every moment of softness and every flash of unbridled wrath were suddenly subject to untold hours of bitter analysis and reinterpretation. Thinking about him at Hogwarts had once made something warm and aching swell in Marianne's chest, but thinking of him after his death only made her jaw clench and her mind reel under the new strain of doubt, jealousy, frustration, and despair.

Three weeks after Voldemort's fall and her return to St. Mungo's, she had been in the ward's main hall, the rickety beds crowded with twisted bodies whose tortured moans haunted her wakeful nights, when she was called into the hall by the imposing, unexpected figure of Minerva McGonagall. She had rarely had the occasion to speak to the newly-minted Headmistress before that moment, when she was told in low tones that she was urgently needed back at Hogwarts. It seemed to her a new insult, another vicious attack on still-fresh wounds. The thought of being in those cold, stone halls again, in the same rooms that she had been with him, touched him, seen him, cared for him, made her hands ball uncontrollably into fists and her nails dig into her palms. She asked why, but received no answer.

In the end, she agreed. Repellant as the idea of returning to Hogwarts was, she decided that yet another addition to the litany of unfortunate decisions she had made over the past few years could do her no more harm than it already had.

* * *

Arriving at the familiar school had been everything she had expected. A torrent of memories tore through her consciousness. McGonagall led her mindlessly through a maze of moving staircases and emptied corridors, stopping at last at the door to the hospital ward. Marianne's brow furrowed deeply, incapable of suppressing the visual manifestation of her confusion at the Headmistress's unfathomable determination to reclaim a Healer's Assistant. McGonagall turned to her.

"We had hoped you wouldn't be needed," her voice was nearly a whisper, but predictably officious just the same, "but I understand you have some particular familiarity with curing the Dark Arts. And perhaps a certain familiarity with the patient as well."

The older witch swung the door to the ward open. Marianne saw Pomfrey first, her hands crossed over her chest in an expression that recalled the impatience and suspicion she had had the first time she had encountered the young import from London. Marianne's gaze traveled to the bed next to her. There, covered by a pristinely white sheet, was Severus Snape.

* * *

Her first instinct upon seeing the former Potions Master lying prostrate before her had been to submit to the rush of numb shock that had claimed her and crumple to a heap on the hard, unforgiving floor. Instead, she took two shaky steps forward, struggling to keep her expression neutral, unwilling to let either of her female companions see how vulnerable he could make her.

His hair was a lank, unwashed stain on the white pillow, but his skin was impossibly pale, nearly matching the stark bedding. By there, against the deathly pallor of his neck, were two angry welts from which extended an expanse of purple and blackened flesh.

"I've been administering a blood-replenishing postion," Pomfrey interjected testily, "But we're not sure how to reverse the damage."

"And we don't know what's keeping him alive," McGonagall added, looking down at the man before her.

Gladly letting her instincts filter through her blank distress, Marianne began running diagnostic spells. Pomfrey complained that she had already tried to determine his condition, but the younger witch knew that there were some, darker ways of diagnosing that only a mediwitch with aspirations in Dark Arts healing would bother to learn. And that's when she found it, a sense of sheer absurdity gave rise to the utterly inappropriate urge to laugh, which she quickly suppressed.

To the bewildered demands of her two companions, she revealed, "He's swallowed bezoar. It wasn't able to reverse the effects of the venom, but it absorbed enough to keep him alive."

Her mind spun, even as she articulated her own findings.

_How had he known to take the bezoar? When did he take it? How had he known it would work?_

Against the cacophony of her own thoughts, she set to examining what she could of the venom with Pomfrey's assistance, the pair of them devising a regimen of potions that would hopefully have the effect of restoring consciousness. In truth, she would later struggle to remember the details of the moments following the moment she had seen him again. She marveled at the idea that she had been any help at all.

* * *

Hours later, she was left alone with him to administer regular doses of various potions. Sitting in the chair next to his bed stirred memories of the first night she had kept watch over him in the ward. The world had changed so incredibly since that warm summer evening. In those halcyon days, she had had hope for the future, for her career, for a chance with him. She had now spent so much time at Hogwarts as to ruin any hope for real success at St. Mungo's and she would forever be relegated to the role of 'assistant' at Hogwarts as long as Pomfrey reigned in the ward. And Severus. The devastation she had felt at his apparent death had been nothing compared to the utter annihilation of her last shreds of optimism when she learned that, since the moment she had met him, she had already lost him to a woman who had been dead for nearly twenty long years. A woman she could never have known or suspected. A hot, prickling wave of anger and humiliation swept through her at the thought, bringing a stinging flush to her cheeks.

Though her vigil wore on into the small hours of the morning, she didn't sleep. Though a hard lump of emotion settled in her throat, she didn't cry either.


	2. Prodigal

The Joy It Brings: Chapter 2

By Polexia Aphrodite

Notes: I know this chapter's short, but I'm just getting back into the swing of things after my long writing break. Reviews are very welcome and appreciated!

* * *

For Severus, there was nothing. It was black, blank, empty. It wasn't a cold darkness, nor was it as hot as he had expected his particular fate in the afterlife to be. It was quite comfortable, really. But always dark and still.

Then, suddenly, there was a bleary light, like looking through water. Through the fog, he could make out a figure, a woman. Red hair. She had red hair. She had to have red hair. No. The image grew clearer. Brown. Her hair was brown.

"Are you in pain?" her words were distant, but he knew that voice.

He could only grunt feebly in reply, his voice too unused to exercise. Finally, he managed to speak, the hoarse creak that emanated from his lips shocking even him.

"Where is—" he stopped himself. She couldn't be there. Lily was death and Marianne Price was life. Where one was, the other simply could not be. It was useless to ask.

There were soft, thin fingers at his wrist, checking his vital signs. Empirically, he knew that it was one of Miss Price's characteristically pragmatic gestures that she often resorted to in moments of awkwardness.

Suddenly, a rush of recognition flooded him, tightening his throat and chest with an oppressive muddle of emotions. He wasn't with Lily. He was still alive.

* * *

So many times over the course of his last year at Hogwarts had he wished for death. It seemed like such a blissful release from an increasingly disastrous life. He had betrayed friends and allies on both sides, murdered, and prayed for forgiveness he was unsure he would ever receive. His chance for redemption was further hindered by the incomprehensible fact that the reprieves he yearned for could only come from those who were no longer living.

Even then, lying in the warmth of a Hogwart's hospital bed with the cool, grounding hand of Marianne Price on his arm, remembrances tormented him.

_I have killed Albus Dumbledore_. His eyes squeezed shut. _ Lily. I did not love Lily as well as I should have._

But something happened to him on the night of Hogwart's final battle, the night he had been meant to die. The sight of Nagini lunging towards him, the unbelievable pain as she sank her fangs into his throat, made him suddenly long for breath, pulse, and life. In the crux, he had submitted to a base, fundamental _need_ to live and, in the chaotic moments after the Dark Lord's departure and before Potter had approached his near-lifeless body, he had taken the bezoar, a tool he often carried with him when faced with the chance for battle.

Marianne's light, hesitant touch suddenly winded him. He remembered that skin on his from the night before his second departure from the ancient castle. The memories rose unbidden and unwelcome. His lips on hers, his hands pulling at her robes, his mouth on the base of her neck, his shameless, barely-stifled moans as that delicate touch nearly killed him with guilty desire.

He wanted to pull his hand from her, to somehow express what torment she elicited from him, but could manage only a rough, twitchy jerk. But her hand moved away, his wrist suddenly cold and exposed in its absence.

He could hear McGonagall's voice now and he recognised the irritated, detached tone she adopted around him since Dumbledore's murder.

"He's awake?"

"Yes. He seems responsive," there was something unsettling about the quiet, formal way that Marianne spoke, "Professor Snape? Do you know where you are?"

"Hogwarts," he groaned in reply.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Price"

"And who is she?"

"'Gonagall"

"What year is it?"

"Ninety-eight"

Marianne turned to McGongall, lowering her voice even further though she knew Severus would still be able to hear her, "Who knows he's here?"

"Only the three of us," came the response.

"You can't," he murmured, struggling to protest at this conversation concerning his place in the world, "you can't hide me forever. I have to face it."

Marianne raised an eyebrow.

"What are you talking about, Severus?" McGonagall demanded, unable to hide her annoyance.

"What I've done," his head lolled to the side, the pain in his neck was increasing under the strain of consciousness, "I have to face what I've done."

As he sank back into the darkness, too weary to continue, his last waking thoughts were on the subtle yet unfortunate difference between red hair and brown.


	3. Won't Tell One Soul

The Joy it Brings: Chapter 3

By Polexia Aphrodite

Rating: T

Thanks for reading! Reviews are appreciated!

* * *

Marianne remained seated next to Severus until sleep overcame her around midnight. He was awake when she woke, his dark gaze fixed on the ward's gothic, vaulted ceiling.

"Potter," he began after a moment, sensing more than seeing her newfound alertness, "He's alive?"

"Yes," she replied quietly.

In the rare moments when she was honest with herself, Marianne knew that she had fantasized countless times about a vaguely defined future in which she and Severus were alone, together, and without the looming spectre of evil and war. This present reality, which seemed a cruel parody of the one she had hoped for, was entirely unforeseen and even repulsive. Strangely, she yearned for the days when her discomfort around him had been caused by her own awkward recognition of her attraction to him instead of by knowledge of his past that excluded and marginalized her.

"I need to see him," his gravelly voice still unsettled her.

She shrugged, trying to feel nonchalant, "You'll have to talk to McGonagall about it."

He said nothing for a long moment, his brow slowly knitting in apparent deep thought.

"What did he say?" his gaze rolled towards her in a futile effort to make eye contact. The discomfort caused by his immobile neck was not lost on Marianne and she instantly made the unspoken, instinctive decision to procure a Muscle-Relaxing Draught from Hogsmeade once morning had more fully set in.

"What _didn't_ he say, more like," she scoffed, looking away.

"What did he say about…about…" Severus' brow had smoothed, his expression grew distant, detached, as though his next words had transported him to a plane inaccessible to others.

"He said everything," the interrupting words rushed out of her, quenching her need to not hear the words _Lily Potter_ fall from those twisted, beautiful, gentle and cruel lips she had once adored. "He thought you were dead," she continued when he said nothing in return.

"So did I," his voice was hollow, "I should have been. I should have – Do you think me a coward, Price?"

He arched an eyebrow as he strained to look at her in a vain attempt to seem as though he were merely asking her a trivial question to which her response mattered little. It was a trick she had seen from him before and she alone knew to look for the glimmer of self-doubt and uncertainty that nearly always accompanied such queries. She had learned that there were no trivial questions with him and that his finely-tuned mind (however dulled by pain it might be) would meticulously examine any answer she gave him.

She gave a long pause, setting her jaw, taking the time to suppress the knee-jerk impulse to shamelessly throw herself upon him and beg him to care for himself and his happiness as deeply as she did.

"You are the least cowardly person I have ever known," came her final, circumspect but honest answer, "There's nothing cowardly about living."

A pain was growing in the back of his throat unrelated to the wounds that had been inflicted upon him. He could feel the strain and delirium of talking and thinking in his condition beginning to take their toll. Marianne could see his eyelids growing heavy and his dark eyes growing subtly glassier in the dim pre-dawn light.

He had waited seventeen years to be with her again, to see her face again, and he had had his chance and refused it. Whatever Marianne told him, it had to have been cowardice that inspired him, no other explanation was acceptable.

Marianne barely made out the words "Why did I do it?" as he sank into incoherent sleep once more.

* * *

Outside the ward window, she could see the sun rising. The rooms' shadows faded as golden light streamed in, filtered by gauzy curtains.

The door behind her creaked open and the tartan-clad McGonagall strode, silent and commanding, into the room, sending uncontrollable memories of her days as a student to the front of Marianne's mind.

"May I speak with you?" she asked after assessing the patient before her.

Marianne followed her to the other side of the ward.

"How is he?" her voice was lowered, though Marianne knew that Severus was incapable of hearing or remembering their words.

Marianne cleared her throat, crossed her arms, and addressed the older witch with all the serious professionalism she could muster, "He seems better. He's talking more and his vital signs are improving."

McGonagall nodded slowly, her steady gaze piercing her companion.

"I must confess I was hesitant to allow your return," her voice was still low and authoritative in a way that made Marianne's pulse quicken nervously, "On what I'd heard from Poppy, I was concerned that your relationship with Professor Snape was…too involved, perhaps, to allow you to treat him effectively."

Marianne's pulse raced, though less from anxiety than fury at the prospect of such an invasion of her privacy. And his privacy.

"I assure you, Headmistress, that I have never let personal involvement impede my abilities as a Healer," she struggled to control her breath and the blinding anger that made her head swim and her thoughts muddle before continuing, "I'm sure you read the papers. It must seem obvious enough by now that Professor Snape could have had little interest in acquiring a _paramour_. I've never heard anything so ridiculous, not to mention insulting."

An uncomfortable silence settled between them. Finally, running a hand through her hair, Marianne spoke.

"He wants to see Potter."

McGonagall exhaled sharply, then pursed her lips in resignation. "I'll see what I can do," she replied, "I'll stay with him for a while. Go rest, Miss Price."

Marianne complied wordlessly.

* * *

Alone in her chambers, Marianne fully felt the reverberations caused by her earlier lie. She _had _been personally involved. _ Too_ personally involved. She knew that she had maintained her oaths as a Healer and treated him as well as she knew how, despite her feelings, but the thought still unnerved her.

She cursed herself for it, but was unable to stop the gentle trickle of memories from her debated involvement with Severus. Since learning of his past, she had tried desperately to hate the memories she was unable to escape. Most disconcerting to her were the thoughts of their last night together and the combination she had seen in him of trepidation and raw need. But when she thought of those last moments, she would not allow herself to miss the feel of his hands, roughened from years of work with harmful potions, on her skin, nor would she miss the press of his lips against hers, the solid, comforting weight of his body above hers, or the unhindered ability to let her own hands roam freely against his skin, soft, white, and scarred. She would not.


	4. I Know, I Know, I Know

The Joy It Brings: Chapter 4

By Polexia Aphrodite

Rating: T

Thanks so much to those who have reviewed! Any feedback is great and really does help!

* * *

Three days passed. Marianne knew that McGonagall had contacted Potter. It would only be a matter of time before he joined the small, dismal party that inhabited the castle. Marianne became Snape's primary caretaker as McGonagall, Pomfrey, and a handful of other teachers made every attempt to expedite the school's repairs in time for the beginning of the new term.

It was mid-morning. Marianne had removed a tray of half-eaten breakfast (his appetite had yet to be fully restored) from Severus' lap and had only just finished adjusting the pillows that supported him to allow him a slightly more reclined pose than the more upright eating posture that often caused him discomfort but allowed him to feed himself, an act of autonomy he absolutely insisted upon.

"Miss Price," he began as she moved away, a deep frown exacerbated the age-lines across his forehead. He looked at her frankly, his dark eyes seemed despairing but in a way that was strangely familiar to her. There was a quiet, willing acceptance in his expression, the likes of which she had seen when he accepted the disdain of his peers during his year as Headmaster.

"I'm sure you haven't forgotten the ...events that transpired between us before I left. I want to apol—"

"Don't," she cried impulsively, knowing that an apology would only further undermine the tenuous hold she had on her post-Severus self-esteem.

His brow creased; he had not predicted resistance to his attempt to leave their past in the past. Subconsciously, he may have known that allowing Marianne his explicit permission to forget their advances toward each other was a pretext for yet more self-flagellation. In the last four nights he had passed in the ward, he had lied fitfully awake as McGonagall or Marianne dozed in the chair next to him and he had formed a vision of his future, the only future acceptable in the face of his failure to die. He would submit himself to the Wizengamot. He would spend the remainder of his pitiful days on earth in a rotting cell in Azkaban, a hermit hidden from the world and able to devote himself fully to the emotional asceticism that allowed him to love Lily above all others.

Unabated, after a moment's silence he continued, "I only mean to say I'm—"

"For God's sake!" her voice raised sharply, echoing in the nearly-empty ward, before lowering self-consciously, her cheeks flushed, she was unable to hide the horror in her eyes, "Please…it's…just…don't apologise." She stood awkwardly for a moment, her mouth opening and closing as though to say more before she finally pursed her lips. She knew she was struggling against the impulse to cry and she tried desperately to push through it, closing her eyes carefully and pressing a warm palm against her temple, trying to ignore the persistent, torturous refrain of _he regrets it he regrets it he regrets me_ that tumbled through her mind.

After a long minute passed, she could take no more, numbly lifted the discarded breakfast tray and left the room.

* * *

It was the first time Severus had been completely alone in the ward since he had regained consciousness. He felt oddly breathless. As Marianne knew all too well, he was incapable of abstaining from analysis when the situation so clearly called for it.

She hadn't wanted him to apologise. She hadn't wanted him to…to what? To regret his actions? To give her a chance to save face and laugh off her disastrous association with him?

He thought back to his last night at the castle, ruminating over the series of events that had led up to his flight more seriously than he had since his return to the castle and the world of the living. He had told her what she meant to him, and he had meant it. She was the first woman to mean so much since…but that line of thought was irrelevant. There could be no comparison. Methodically, his mind sifted through years of evidence:

"_I've missed you"_

_The open concern in her eyes as she administered to his wounds, placing herself under his arm as a human crutch, lowering him into bed_

"_Do be careful"_

_Her hand, warm and gentle, pressing his wrist to feel for broken bones in a gesture that lasted longer than it should have and, by the end of the examination, made his chest swell with emotion in a way that none of her previous inspections had_

"_Because of you"_

_Her dark eyes glittering strangely in the candlelight, her small hands maneuvering his to the sides of her waist, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, surprisingly strong_

"_Tell me you don't want me"_

_He had looked into her mind then, but gently and unobtrusively, too frightened to look deeper. But he had felt her affection, her faith in him, and he knew for certain that he was not the only one who felt that strange warmth that spread from his chest to his limbs, head, fingers, and even toes when they were together_

"_Thank God for you, Marianne"_

_She murmured encouragingly by his ear, her legs trembled as he moved them to drape around his waist. He had hesitated before the final consummative act, a pause that nearly destroyed him as her soft touch still worked his nerves mercilessly, but it had been a necessary hesitation designed to let her change her mind. She didn't._

Lying motionless in the Hogwarts ward, Severus felt half-wild. She had cared for him. Marianne had cared for him. More than he deserved. More than anyone.

_No,_ he thought as soon as the last thought passed through his mind, _Not more than _anyone_. Not more than…_

But he couldn't bring himself to finish the thought. Lily had cared for him but, his ordered, empirical mind told him, she had given him significantly less evidence to support her affection. And in the end Lily had wanted more regret than he could offer, namely, his regret for associating with Mulciber and the other young Death Eaters. Marianne did not want him to regret at all. Lily could not accept an apology for what he had done, but Marianne did not want an apology.

It was an hour later, his brow still knitted in consternation, that sleep finally managed to silence the din of thoughts, hypotheses, and futile nostalgia.

* * *

When he woke, Marianne was seated on the chair by his side. Her gaze was unfocused and serene, directed at a vaguely defined spot on the other side of the window that abutted Severus' cot. In her lap, nimble fingers rolled bandages, an activity she had once told him she refused to use magic for, preferring instead to let her mind wander as her hands engaged in the mundane task. He had related with her then, thinking of his own preference for hand-preparing potions ingredients and the peacefulness that came over him when he did.

Presently, Severus spoke, unsure if she had even sensed that he was awake.

"You must think I'm horrible."

She started slightly, turning to look at him. Her expression remained distant and she slowly returned it to the window. The shadowy, late afternoon light that came through the window made her pale skin paler and he noticed for the first time how slightly gaunt she looked.

She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly.

"You know I don't"

With some effort, he moved his hand toward her, his fingers outstretched in unspoken invitation.

The sudden movement made her turn again, her eyes settling on his opened palm. She hesitated but reciprocated, letting him take her hand, squeezing it with what little strength he had. He suddenly felt so alarmingly close to her. For a moment, it was as if the final battle had never happened and they were together as they had been then. His apocalyptic vision of his own future grew dim

"Marianne," his voice was barely louder than a whisper, "I—"

Then the door behind her creaked open. Marianne jerked away her hand, stood, and turned as McGonagall stepped into the room, followed closely by Harry Potter. His hair was dark and messy as she had seen in countless photographs, and round, black glasses framed clear green eyes. _Her _eyes, she had read. And everything was changed again.


	5. Hundreds of Miles

The Joy It Brings: Chapter 5

By Polexia Aphrodite

Rated: T

Thanks again to readers and reviewers! Keep letting me know what you think!

* * *

"Would you excuse us, Miss Price?" McGonagall's voice was all cold formality.

"Of course," she replied. Annoyance and thwarted curiosity prickled at the back of her mind, but she left without another word.

Snape watched her retreat, unable to explain why his eyes were still fixed on her as she left or why he felt so suddenly irritated at her absence. Resolved to keep his new guests oblivious to his mental state, he regarded them stoically, though McGonagall's raised brow indicated that she had noticed his now-empty hand extended to Marianne's former seat.

* * *

Potter took the chair recently occupied by Marianne as McGonagall slipped from the room.

"You loved her? My mum?"

Severus found himself unable to be shocked by the question, knowing that any surprise he could have felt at Potter's forwardness was ridiculous under the circumstances.

"Yes"

"I mean," he swallowed thickly, "you were _in_ love with her?"

Severus exhaled slowly, "Yes."

"Was she…," he hesitated, his eyes fixed on his lap, "Was she in love with you?"

Severus gave a long pause, thinking carefully about the question before finally answering, "No."

Potter shifted slightly, an unconsciously held tension in his shoulders relaxed.

"Nauseating as it is, I can say with a reasonable amount of certainty that she did love your father."

"But you kept thinking about her?" Harry's eyes narrowed suspiciously, "Why?"

Severus' next words were carefully measured and shyly quiet, "Because she was the first person to care for me."

His eyes slid shut. His throat constricted. A single thought beat rhythmically through his mind: _Do not cry in front of the boy. Do not. Do not. Do not._

He sighed deeply, feeling finally overwhelmed as he confessed his secrets and sins to the ultimate symbol of his most poignant defeat at the hands of James and Lily Potter.

"I killed her," his tone was barely audible and, even in the silence of the ward, Harry strained to hear him, "And your father. It may as well have been my wand, my hand."

For a moment, Harry seethed uncontrollably. It had been difficult to come to terms with the fact that Snape had only tried to save his mother without any regard for him or his father. It was Ginny, Ginny who had known what it was like to be near Voldemort, who had helped him understand that his parents' fate had been inevitable with or without Snape's maneuverings. Remembering this rational argument, he fought back the sudden rush of anger that threatened him.

"You've done good things too, Professor," he began conciliatorily, "The Order needed—"

"No," Snape interrupted, "It's not enough."

* * *

Having spent an indeterminate period of time wandering aimlessly through the school's corridors, Marianne at last found herself poring over a decrepit, eighteenth-century text on snake venom antidotes. Madam Pince, finally deciding that she could be left unsupervised with the volume's delicate pages, had abandoned her for the librarian's desk. Without students, the library was perfectly silent, a fact that seemed only to exacerbate the throbbing pain growing behind her eyes.

Scanning the shelves to ensure her solitude, Marianne lowered her head, pressing her cheek against the cool, flat wood of the desk. The musty scent of the nearby book filled her nostrils. It comforted her and lulled her into sleep.

* * *

She woke to the sensation of a tense, claw-like hand gripping her shoulder, shaking her.

"For God's sake, Miss Price!"

Blinking back her own tiredness, Marianne looked up and met McGonagalls' steely gaze.

"What…what is it?" she smothered a yawn with the back of her hand.

McGonagall glanced nervously in Madam Pince's direction before sweeping out of the room, gesturing that Marianne should follow her. She could hear Pince's aggravated huff at seeing the unshelved, discarded book she had left.

"He's gone," McGonagall hissed in the corridor. She kept a brisk pace en route to the hospital ward and Marianne's legs moved quickly to keep up with the headmistress' long strides.

"What?"

"_Our patient_ has disappeared. We think Potter's taken him."

Marianne said nothing as her mind turned over the situation, trying to find the most efficient question to begin with. "How did Potter get here?"

"By broom," McGonagall looked steadfastly forward, her inner thoughts betrayed only by the slight clench of her jaw.

Marianne had a fleeting vision of Severus, slumped over a woefully insufficient broomstick behind Potter. She saw him trying to grip Potter, but finding himself too weak.

Her feet, feeling suddenly impossibly heavy, stopped moving forward. McGonagall was several steps ahead of her when she realized this change and, stopping, turned to face her companion.

"What do you want me to do?"

McGonagall's lips pursed, "Go to St. Mungo's. See if he's checked in there."

* * *

One devastatingly long hour later, Marianne found herself seated in the waiting room of the "Dangerous" Dai Llewellyn Ward for Serious Bites. The fluorescent white light of the ward turned her burgundy Hogwarts robes sickly purple. Her brain was numb, her eyes hurt as she stared at the stone floor before her, an unuttered cry of frustration welled in her throat.

_He's just a patient_ she told herself. He wasn't a man. He wasn't a person. He was loosened bandages. He was stretched and torn sutures. He was potential rapid blood loss and pallid flesh and a diminishing pulse.

Healer-in-Charge Smethwyck emerged from a nondescript crimson door to her left, followed closely by Augustus Pye, recently promoted to a full Healer. They both recognized her, a fact which elicited skeptical derision from Smethwyck and a shy smile from his protégé. Smethwyck walked briskly past her to his adjacent offices, leaving Augustus in his wake, running a pale hand through his closely-cropped hair.

"Augustus—"

He held up a hand to stop her, "He's alright, but just barely. He got lucky."

Her eyes closed, her clammy palms covered her face while she breathed deeply.

She looked up at him, "Can I see him?"

Augustus' eyes searched her face. His brow was furrowed in concentration or consternation, and she idly wondered why. He nodded, but grabbed her arm lightly as she moved past him to the ward's door.

"Smethwyck notified the Aurors. They'll be here soon." She felt his thumb move across the thick linen of her sleeve.

She kept moving, pressing her hand against the door before her and stepping inside.

* * *

"Severus?" Her sense of propriety and adherence to titles had abandoned her in the course of her journey to London.

He was lying so still. So horribly, terrifyingly still under bright lights and white sheets. She stepped forward.

Nothing.

Another step forward.

He was so pale.

Step.

She lowered herself into the care-worn seat next to the bed.

"Severus?" her voice trembled unrecognizably.

Her hands clutched his exposed, spindly fingers, still stained by potions he hadn't touched in weeks; her mind pushed away the recognition of their coldness. Her forehead bent to touch the bony back of his hand as her exhaustion vented itself through the warm tears that seeped onto her cheeks from beneath tightly shut eyelids.

"Had you worried, did I?"

At the croak of his voice, her head rose. She looked at him. His lips were curved in a faint smile. He saw the slightest hint of a reciprocating smile before she covered her face with both hands, exhaling deeply before exposing her expression to him once more.

"Why did you do this?" her voice was soft, but steady, "They're going to prosecute you."

"I've done many things that deserve punishment," his eyes searched her face, "Not everything has been pardoned."

Her fingers curled around his, pressing against his chilled flesh. She couldn't meet his gaze then, knowing what she had to ask.

"Did you love her that much? To sacrifice the rest of your life for her?"

His brow furrowed.

"It was more than that. I was…obsessed by her. Even more so after what I did."

She made a noise that sounded somewhere between a snort of derision and a stifled sob.

* * *

It was so hard to look at her. Yet something indefinable kept Severus from closing his eyes, from looking away.

Her eyes were red-rimmed and raw, her normally well-manicured hair was in disarray, her robes were rumpled from travel, the end of her nose grew pink as she rubbed at it with an ivory, standard-issue Hogwarts handkerchief. But there was no one else who should have been there in that moment. Not Pomfrey, not McGonagall, not Dumbledore, and, he concluded after a moment's thought, not Lily. It was Miss Price who had always helped him, who had come after him, who had tried to reached for him even as he felt his mind enveloped by darkness, and who had followed him now, still trying to save him. Lily had never followed him, had never saved him.

"She was important to me, in my life," his voice sounded muffled and quiet, even to his own ears, "So are you."

Against her better judgment, Marianne felt her heart swell as her hand tightened involuntarily around his.

"You were right," his lungs and throat ached, but he continued, "not to let me apologise. I'm not sorry. Are you?"

He felt delirious, on the verge of blacking out, letting words escape his lips the moment they entered his mind without the usual meditations on appropriateness.

"No," she whispered.

* * *

He was arrested later that afternoon, though Marianne and Augustus were able to convince the Aurors that Severus would require a two week period of recovery at St. Mungo's before transference to Azkaban under medical supervision.

Severus' condition slowly grew more stable, though Marianne secretly wished he would stay ill, knowing that his wellness would mean the end of her ability to protect him.

In time, he was transferred to Azkaban, to a cell that was colder, darker, and more miserable than Marianne had been capable of imagining. But she stayed with him, even then, and they waited together for his trial and for their lives to change once more.


	6. Still My Love

The Joy It Brings: Chapter 6

By Polexia Aphrodite

Rated: T

And over three years later, here's another chapter. Hope you like it. Please leave me a review with your thoughts! It might help me actually finish this thing?

* * *

The dank chill of Azkaban only exacerbated the respiratory effects of the serpent's venom, but Severus' overall condition slowly improved.

At six in the morning, the earliest allowed visitor hour, Marianne would arrive, laden with potions and fresh linens. Severus would sigh and smile when he saw her, automatically taking her hand as she sat on the edge of his bed. Her free hand would brush his forehead in a vaguely diagnostic gesture and he would sigh again and squeeze her fingers.

It was during this time that a routine blood test revealed the lingering venom still coursing through his veins. Marianne instituted a series of extractive procedures. They were unavoidably painful, but she talked him through them.

She was there when Shacklebolt came.

"I've done what I can," he had explained, "but I must allow justice to take its course."

Severus had received the news sitting upright on the meager cot of his cell, his back pressed against a cold stone wall. The position made his head swim and his neck ache, but he had insisted upon it.

Marianne had stood in a corner, her arms crossed, her expression lined by concentration. He had barely looked at her during his conversation with the Minister of Magic, but, after he had gone, Severus reached for her and she sat next to him, pressing her cheek against his shoulder while her hands stroked his sides through the warm fabric of his shirt.

* * *

Slowly, the angry welts on his neck receded, leaving behind patches of permanently mottled, though visibly healthier, flesh.

In the late afternoons, Marianne would find herself overwhelmed by an ache of regret in her chest as she recognized the fast approach of the hour when she would be required to leave.

It was a Thursday afternoon at just such a time when Severus had taken her hand, as he had become accustomed to doing, and without meeting her gaze, began to speak.

"You once said you were glad we were friends," he looked at her then, plainly, "I feel I should tell you—That is to say, I'm also glad that we're friends."

He held his breath unconsciously; his eyes searched her face for her reaction.

Her brow pinched downward, she stared at their joined hands. Then her closed lips curved into a bright, false smile, she stood, said her goodbye, and left.

* * *

The trial began in September.

That morning, she stood in front of him, searching him from head to toe for any sign of weakness.

"Are you nervous?"

He was motionless for a long moment, then his eyes raised to hers.

"You'll be there? In the Wizengamot chamber?"

She nodded, "Yes."

"And Potter?"

"I don't know."

He pursed his lips, the muscles in his face growing tense. He shifted from foot to foot.

"When I said…" his voice grew quiet before he made another try. He spoke in fits and starts, hesitating and rushing alternately, "I am—I _am_ glad we're friends. You've been very…patient these last few years."

She gave a shy smile, "I do know _that_, Professor."

His hands jerked forward, grabbing her arms roughly. "Don't. Just don't say anything."

She raised an eyebrow.

The protrusion of his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "I need you to understand that there are things I can't tell you. Not here and not now."

"What? You're carrying a torch for McGonagall too?"

He glowered for a moment before continuing, "I need you to know that there are things I want to say but…won't yet."

Though she had tried valiantly for friendly good-humor, his seriousness was contagious and she suddenly felt a sinking dread in her stomach.

"What if you don't get the chance?"

He raised an arm, lightly sliding his hand across her hair before pulling her into him, folding his arms around her shoulders, pressing them together. Her hands wrapped around the slim curve of his waist. He leaned backwards, pressing his lips to her forehead, her brow bone, the top of her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were heavy-lidded.

"I…I can't say it if it's not right."

A Ministry guard in a dark blue uniform tapped a baton on the cell door behind them and she pulled away from him. At his stricken look, she took his hand.

"Let's go."

* * *

For seven days, Severus, bound in chains and clad in ragged gray robes, was led to the Wizengamot chamber. A stream of witnesses paraded through the court. Minerva McGonagall, now Headmistress of Hogwarts, testified in Severus' favor, her heart finally changed by Harry Potter's revelations. Harry himself provided convincing testimony as to Severus' valor and bravery. The Malfoys, in exchange for their own immunity, each testified that Severus had always been loyal to Voldemort.

On the fifth day, Marianne was called forth as a character witness.

She had been officially reinstated as an Assistant Healer at Hogwarts, and Severus' solicitor had encouraged her to wear her uniform robes to the Wizengamot, in an effort to lend her further credibility.

She was given a routine dose of Veritaserum. Things had gone well, until the lead Ministry Interrogator, a dour, dumpy man with an enormous blonde mustache, rose to cross-examine her. He began with a series of easily answered questions, mainly concerning the length of her acquaintance with Severus and her knowledge of his Death Eater activities. Then, with a malevolent twinkle in his eye, Severus' prosecutor arrived at the crux of his argument.

"Do you believe," he began, "that you treated Mr. Snape in the same way you would have any other patient?"

"Yes, of course," she answered plainly.

"Miss Price," his voice rose accusatorily, "are you aware of the professional penalties faced by Healers who engage in unethical sexual relationships with their patients?"

Her blood froze. She felt Severus' gaze on her, but stared fixedly at the Interrogator before her.

She swallowed, "Yes."

"Then you are aware that such a Healer could face the loss of his or her position, not to mention the potential for license revocation."

Marianne sat motionlessly, hoping beyond hope that her guilt wasn't written on her face.

"Miss Price," the Interrogator moved to stand in front of her, looming over her, his mustache bobbing with each syllable, "have you ever been involved in a sexual relationship with Severus Snape?"

She stared at him, filled with loathing and self-consciousness. She had never admitted what had happened between them the night before Severus fled Hogwarts. The last time she had seen him before his near-death.

"Yes."

"Do you believe that this fact may bias your impression of Mr. Snape's character?"

She said nothing, knowing that her answer would only worsen the situation.

"I have no more questions," the Interrogator declared after a moment of silence. He returned to his seat, smiling victoriously.

* * *

At the end of the seventh day, the Wizengamot convicted Severus of his crimes. Severus remained stoic as the verdict was read, but Marianne could see the strain in his face as he was led back to his cell in chains.

A few hours later, it was Minister Shacklebolt himself who had led Marianne through the labyrinthine corridors of the Ministry of Magic to Severus' cramped, temporary holding cell. He had unlocked the solid, iron door and thrust her inside before she was even able to process the gesture. "You have a half an hour," he whispered gruffly, casting a glance at Severus before closing the cell door noiselessly.

They did not speak at first. Severus pulled her roughly to him, he whispered frantically against her hair _I love you I'm sorry I love you I'm sorry_, and Marianne felt her defenses fall away and her heart burst. She felt the reciprocal words bubble up in her own throat, but she could only smile and sob. They both maneuvered through the next moments in a stunned silence, punctuated occasionally by a stifled cry from Marianne.

Severus' lips pressed against hers as he quickly abandoned his previous attempts at aloof dignity in the face of his sentence. Her hands slid up the coarse fabric of his uniform's shirt, pressing fully against the warm skin of his back. Wasting no time, needing contact above all else, Severus quickly lowered her to the cell's dingy cot, feeling a momentary pang of regret at their shabby surroundings.

Their coupling was what neither had hoped for in a reunion, but it was unspeakably necessary. They clung to each other in desperation; Marianne pressed her face to his shoulder to hide her tears as her legs pulled his hips into hers. Severus struggled against his own emotions, wrapping his arms around her and willing himself to let her go.

Afterwards, as they redressed, knowing that they had mere minutes left, Severus broke the silence. "I don't want you to be alone," he spoke slowly, as though the words were forced out of him, "I have lived a lifetime of loneliness. I don't want that for you."

She shook her head, "I'll come see you."

"No," his voice was firm, "You won't. I won't allow it."

"I'll write."

"I won't answer."

He saw her face crumple slightly; she knew that she could never convince him otherwise. He held her to him once more, "It has to be this way. Please forget me."

They held each other for a minute longer, and then Shacklebolt returned, led Marianne, crushed and stumbling, out of the cell, down the hallway, and all the way into the street.


	7. Don't Insist

The Joy it Brings: Chapter 7

By Polexia Aphrodite

Rated: T

Thanks in advance to all reviewers!

* * *

Severus Snape served twelve years in Azkaban before he was paroled to little fanfare in the Wizarding world. After his release had been processed, he had walked out of the Ministry of Magic alone. He was not met by photographers, reporters, or an angry mob, as he had secretly suspected. Only a few hidden lines in the Daily Prophet indicated the fate of the traitorous spy who had once been so universally loathed and feared.

He had gotten Marianne's address from McGonagall, who had finally warmed to him after his long absence. She had even offered him an adjunct position. He had asked for time to think it over.

* * *

Severus raised his balled fist to Marianne Price's door. He knocked twice, the sound echoing in his ears.

The door opened, revealing Augustus Pye, his pale auburn hair streaked with grey. The now-aged Healer's jaw clenched slightly and something like dread touched his cerulean eyes. But he covered these betrayals of emotion almost instantaneously, pursing his lips together in a wan smile.

"Professor Snape," Augustus managed, "I read about your release. Congratulations."

Severus' expression bore his confusion plainly.

"Excuse me, perhaps I have the wrong address," he glanced at the folded paper in his hands on which McGonagall had scrawled the directions that had led him here, "I'm looking for Miss Price."

Augustus swallowed, nodded and stepped aside.

"Come in."

* * *

Severus was led through the modestly sized house. As he was led down a hall, the walls of which were lined with framed pictures of smiling and waving wizards and witches, he stopped involuntarily at the door to a cozily furnished parlor. A black-haired boy was sprawled on the floor; an oversize book filled with yellowing pages was open in front of him. The boy's head rose as he sensed Severus' presence. He looked up at him quizzically. After ten years of relived memories, Severus would have recognized the boy's hazel eyes and straight nose anywhere. He wished that he could have felt satisfaction that Marianne had settled into such a normal life, but his heart sank in spite of himself.

"Professor," Augustus' voice was sharp and beckoned Severus to a study at the end of the hall.

"Marianne should be here any minute," he said conversationally as Severus gingerly lowered himself into a plush armchair. The dank cold, stone floors, and solid mattresses of Azkaban had prematurely triggered an arthritis in his joints that would stay with him for the remainder of his life. Augustus continued, "She went back to work at Hogwarts, but she comes home for weekends."

Severus nodded numbly, noticing a glint of gold on the younger man's left hand and willing away the nausea the observation inspired.

Augustus left him then, on the pretext of some banal household chore.

Marianne would be the next person to cross the threshold of the tiny study.

* * *

Her once primly short and styled hair had grown long and she wore it down, letting a sheet of straight brown-blonde hair reach the center of her back. Her face was lined, but no more so than one would expect for a wizard in her forties. The magical blood that ran in both their veins not only lengthened their life spans, but had also mercifully slowed the visible signs of aging.

Severus stood as she entered. She didn't smile or cry or shout with joy when she saw him, but instead wrapped her arms around his neck and shoulders, clutching him to her silently. He could feel her trembling.

His hands rested on the small of her back, wanting to pull her tighter against him but made wary by the sight of Augustus leaning against the study's doorway.

"I was so afraid you'd be there forever," she whispered against his shoulder.

He smiled, "So was I."

She exhaled heavily and he could feel her relax against him. The thumb of one of her hands stroked the skin at the base of his neck and he braved sliding one hand up her back to touch her hair. Some residual vindictive impulse in him hoped that her husband saw.

Marianne pulled back, her hands ran across his shoulders to straighten his robes where her embrace had rumpled them.

"Sit, please," she commanded cheerily, gesturing at the chair behind him as she rested in a chair opposite it. She sent Augustus for tea and they were left alone.

Fearful that the time it took for the tea to be prepared would be the only time he would have alone with her, he furtively began with the most immediate line of questioning he could think of.

"You married him?"

"Yes," she self-consciously covered her left hand with her right.

"How long ago?"

"Eight years"

He snorted derisively, "Why on earth did you wait? You couldn't have married him the same day I was incarcerated?"

Her expression darkened, "I tried to–You gave me no reason to refuse him. You _said_—"

He raised a hand to stop her, knowing that she was right and that he was being irrational.

He stared at the floor, unable to look at her.

"The boy in the other room. He's your son?"

"Yes"

"What's his name?"

"Marcus," Marianne moved to the edge of her seat, her eyes were wide and imploring. "Severus-,"she began, but it was then that Augustus returned and the three of them were forced into fifteen minutes of stilted conversation.

At last, Severus excused himself. Marianne ushered him to the door, stepping out onto the house's stoop with him.

* * *

It was early spring, and the afternoon air was crisp. Marianne, without a coat, crossed her arms against the chill.

"Will you go back to Hogwarts?" she asked.

He nodded. From the moment that he had heard that Marianne had returned to Hogwarts, he had resolved to take McGonagall's offer, regardless of her new marital status. He would have her in his life at any cost to his own emotional well-being.

"I'll start again in the fall"

She licked her lips pensively, "That's when Marcus will start."

Azkaban had not dulled Severus' mind, and this new information made him snap to attention. "Marcus is eleven years old?"

Marianne's jaw dropped slightly, as though taken off guard. "He will be, in a few months." Her expression was indecipherable.

Severus' brow furrowed slightly, his head turned inquisitively. But he couldn't give voice to the question just then forming in his mind. It was unspeakable, unthinkable.

Marianne glanced at the almost-closed door behind her warily, then took Severus' hand, her mouth curved in a sad smile. Her fingers squeezed his. She lowered her face, her hair falling around her like a curtain.

"I'll see you at Hogwarts," she said, before disappearing into the house, leaving Severus alone in the cold.


End file.
